DIRTY LAUNDRY
Sometimes I manage to disgust myself. Was I really going to sink so low and put my plan in action?

Too fucking right I was.

And it was one of the best wanks I've ever had in my life.

But lets go back in time a bit - when I was in sixth form at school I had an economics teacher named Miss Gainey who instilled in me a lifelong passion and interest. Not in economics, fuck no. But in breasts. Whenever I needed help with anything she would come up behind my desk, take my pen, lean over me and work through some calculations in my exercise book. During these precious moments she'd park her unbelievably hot puppies on my head, it was a truly wonderful experience. Probably explains why I did so fucking well in this subject. Also probably explains the terrible upper back and neck pains I suffered from as a teenager - her tits were fucking huge and heavy.

I loved Miss Gainey. It was a pure, unsullied love, I was completely devoted to her - well, to her breasts. I was so in love with Miss Gainey that I even made sure I had a shower in the mornings on Tuesday and Thursday, the days I had economics with her. I was fucking infactuated, and to make matters worse she lived in the next street along from my parents house. I would often see her driving down my street and have to go inside quickly to masturbate furiously. Miss Gainey was, simply, wonderful.

And then that fateful day came when I left school and went to university and Miss Gainey was forgotten. I was far too busy masturbating over the fleeting glimpses of Joanna Smith on my course to pay the stored up memories of Miss Gainey in my wank bank any attention. Miss Gainey became a closed account, all spunk-related transactions ceased.

And then I finished uni and found myself back at my parents for a while, unemployed, not having a clue what I wanted to do with my life. All I used to do was play Championship Manager and go and sign on once a fortnight. It was fucking awesome. After a couple of months of this I started to get really bored, I remember approaching every business in the area to see if they needed any casual staff over the summer - I'd already decided to go back to uni to do my masters and just needed something to tide me over until September.

And thats how I landed the job at the laundrette.

Nice easy work. Sorting out service loads, fishing condoms out of the driers, giving people change for the machines. Piece of piss. And it was cash in hand, no need to involve that pesky taxman bastard. I was suddenly rich again.

One bright August morning I'm fucking about filling the soap dispenser machine when the door opens and I hear:

"Spanky? Spanky! Fancy seeing you here!"

I recognised the voice and so did my cock, which instantly went a little hard - the account in the wank bank was suddenly reinstated with full credit facilities.

I turned and saw her: "Miss Gainey!" She looked fucking hot! Both of them looked fucking hot actually, sat snugly in her summer blouse, straining as if they wanted to be released so they could rest on my head again, just like old times.

I explained to Miss Gainey I was working in the laundrette just until I got back to uni again, she seemed really interested in what I was up to. After we'd had a breif chat she handed me over a big bag of washing and asked when it would be ready to pick up. Instantly I told her it would be ready tomorrow morning and she left, and I looked down at the bag and my perversion levels started to go atomic.

And with good cause.

I dumped the contents in the closest washing machine, having a good feel and look at all the cloths. Miss Gainey was a bit of an emo chick out of work! Fuck me! Who would've thought. And at the bottom of her laundry bag I hit dirty-fucker pay dirt gold: I found a big collection of her tangled-up panties.

For a fleeting, brief moment I considered putting them in the machine. But it was as if my body had been taken over by a higher power, a power so strong I just couldn't fight it, some kind of god of perversion had taken control of my limbs.

And thats how the panties ended up in my satchel. Thats how, later that evening in my room at my parents house, after a breif battle with my conscience, I found myself stark bollock naked on my bed, stroking my boner, while I rifled through Miss Gainey's soiled undies, sniffing them, rubbing the gussets, even putting a few pairs over my head and inhaling deeply, enjoying the rich beefy flavors of Miss Gainey's fanny batter.

And, I have to say, it was an absolutely tremendous wank. I must've shed half a stone in bodyweight, the amount of jizz I spewed. I very nearly passed out.

It was a monumental achievement.

When I'd finished I gathered together the pants, took them downstairs with some of my laundry, and washed and dried them in my parents machine.

Feeling rather pleased with myself the next day at work I waited for Miss Gainey to turn up to collect her service wash. I'd even had a shower.

We settle the bill, as she's going out the door Miss Gainey turns and says: "You really got me out of a hole, Spanky. I usually use my washing machine at home, but my daughter dumped all this washing on me after she got back from holiday with her father, we're seperated you see, and it was too much for my little machine to handle. For a fourteen year old girl she produces an awful lot of dirty laundry! Anyway, Spanky, see you around."

Teh Fear
I can’t recall exactly why I volunteered to look after Alan’s much loved Labrador dog for the weekend, but I’m almost certain that Newcastle Brown had something to do with it. After being softened up with a few bottles of Newcastle’s finest over a game of cards, I agreed that Alan should entrust me with his pet, the keys to his house, his finest gentlemen’s art DVDs and a slab of brain grenades while he went away to boff the living daylights out of his latest squeeze.

Friday night was spent bonding with my new found canine pal Harvey before watching the Bond* film on Alan’s new widescreen TV and slurping beer.

Hungover, I woke the next morning on the sofa to see Harvey wagging his tail and looking forlornly at his empty food bowl and lead with a trusting and hopeful look on his doggy face.

An hour later and Harvey and I are trudging through nearby fields and farmland, my hangover was still making itself felt as I threw a grubby tennis ball for Harvey to fetch and return, covered in slobber. One more time I stopped myself from retching as I gingerly picked up the slimy ball and threw it over a hedge, for Harvey to chase, tongue flapping in the breeze.

“Yeow! What the fuck’s that?”

I turned and ran towards the direction of the voice, which appeared to come from the other side of the hedge, fearful that Harvey was making a pest of himself. I spluttered an apology as I climbed over a small fence.

“I’m terribly sorry, it was my fault, I hope my dog isn’t being a nuis… Oh…”

Harvey’s quest for the lost tennis ball had been momentarily forgotten, for he’d stumbled across a courting couple and was smearing a cold-wet doggy nose over the gentleman suitor’s bare bottom intent on making new friends. Squirming beneath him was an attractive brunette girl whose face turned from ecstasy to horror in the blink of an eye. I don’t know who was more mortified, her or me.

His poor ladyfriend was reddening even faster than I was and looked absolutely mortified. Obviously our young Casanova had been on his vinegars before slobbering Cerberus had caused coitus interruptus. I weakly offered my apologies, desperately trying not to notice her bare and rather fulsome norkage which was hurriedly being covered with a crumpled tee shirt.

“I’m so sorry folks… Harvey! Come here! Harvey! Fuck’s sake. Harvey!”

Feeling like some kind of seedy voyeur, I grabbed Harvey’s collar and dragged the sniggering hound away. I reattached his lead and led him back home before preparing our dinners and opening a can of Shepps and trying to block out the embarrassing memory of stumbling across the alfresco shaggers.

Six months later and I’m soberly sat at my desk reviewing my diary for the day when the email came in telling me that my interviewee had arrived and was waiting for me. Gulping down the remnants of my now rapidly cooling coffee, I put on my tie and headed downstairs to the boardroom in full on potential employer mode.

“Hi there, Tracy. I’m PJM and I’m the department head here.”

My pretty interviewee looked at me with a horrified expression on her face. For a moment I had an attack of The Fear, my mind went through all the possible scenarios, was I stood there with my cock hanging out? No, I wasn’t feeling a draught.

“Uhm, please take a seat” I added, trying to appear professional.

Had we once drunkenly fumbled on a nightclub floor in a humiliating drunken tryst I’d blocked out of my memory? No, she looked far too young for that. However, my alcohol addled archives are far from the most reliable source.

“Can I uh, fetch you some water or something?”

Her face was the colour of a freshly smacked arse. Ever the professional, I scanned through my prepared questions and asked away.

She was refusing to make eye contact. This really isn’t going well, she was going crimson and the blood rushed to my face so much it felt like my head was about to burst. I knew Tracy from somewhere and the circumstances weren’t the best, but I couldn't for the life of me remember how… Teh Fear was strong and I didn’t know why.

It’s testament to my continual ham-fisted bell-endedness that I seem to maximise any opportunity to make a monumental twat of myself. Suffice to say that I struck gold this time when in a state of panic I scanned down Tracy’s CV and asked the killer question that finally jogged my recalcitrant memory.

“It says here that you used to work for the Environment Agency as a site survey officer. How did you feel getting all mucky in the great outdoors”.

I was lying in bed last night, the prospect of ANOTHER 12 hour day shift lying in front of me and worrying greatly of my lack of performance in the QOTW so far. I mentioned this to 'im indoors.

"Why not talk about the time you worked for the Jobcentre?" he suggested

"I never worked for the Jobcentre." I reminded him.

"Yes you did you fucking mong" he gently chided. "You did that survey work for them."

Oh yeah. How did I forget about that?

Just after I qualified as a student and started working as a stretcher monkey in our fine capital city, I was a fair bit short of money (pay then was frankly shite, and anything I got went on paying off my uber student debt). I started moonlighting for a company that did "Unplanned Customer Experience Monitoring." Or in other words, mystery shopping. 99% of the work was wank as it was public sector stuff (local councils, libraries etc.) However, in order to qualify for the more exciting jobs (electrical stores that sound like tasty Indian foodstuffs) you had to do a number of these other jobs. The pay was a pittance, but you did get travel thrown in - I always drove to these places as the fuel allowance was fucking amazing.

A highlight visit was when I went to a Jobcentre in quite a posh area of London. The first part of my visit entailed walking around the Jobcentre, checking all the computers were working, that the place was clean, that all the job boards were properly laid out etc. To do this, I had to have a clipboard and pen, and part of the survey was to see how long it was before someone approached you to ask if you needed assistance, at which stage you were to announce who you were and proceed to part 2, the interview.

So I was walking around, merrily ticking away like an autistic child with a new pen, when I heard a voice say "You. What do you think you're doing?"

I turned to see a formidable woman in her late 50's bearing down on me like that fucking black fortress from the film Krull with a twinset, pearls and blue teeth. I put on my most winning smile.

"Hi, I'm here from...."

"I don't CARE who you're here from. You stand in line like the rest of the jobseekers and WE will tell you when you can use the machines."

"Ah, I think there's been some kind of mistake. Actually I'm...."

"Mistake? We don't make MISTAKES young man. I suggest that you change your tone of voice and do as you are told, unless you want your benefits cut." At this stage, everyone in the jobcentre was silent. You could have heard an Elizabeth Duke sovereign drop.

I looked at her and cleared my throat, my bowel contents straining at my nipsy like a curious turtle.

"Can I speak to your manager please."

"NO" she shouted. "You may NOT. My manager is VERY busy and has better things to do."

I pulled out my ID. "I don't think you understand. I am here performing an inspection on your jobcentre, and you WILL let me speak to your manager. Immediately."

"Oh..er...I'll just see if he's available."

"I am certainly available" said a voice from the far end of the room. A (youngish) man in glasses was standing by a door. "Would you like to come through, sir? And you, Maureen. Stay there. I will be talking to you shortly."

I would like to say the room burst into applause, but this was London and it was clear everyone was still far too scared of Maureen to actually question her rule. But there was a universal sigh, followed by animated (if slightly hushed) conversation.

I walked into the manager's office and had a long chat with him.

"Look" I said, "obviously I'm going to have to mention what happened, but as far as I am concerned, everything else was absolutely fine."

"To be honest," the manager said "I'm glad that happened. She's been an absolute bitch ever since I came here. She basically thinks unemployment is due to lazyness or weakness, and nothing else. Unfortunately, it's nearly impossible to sack her because it's the public sector. So feel free to make your report as damning as you want - I've been telling my bosses for ages we need rid of her."

So, I walked out of the Jobcentre. No sign of Maureen. As I walked up the road, I heard a voice.

"Oi, you".

I turned round. It was a guy I vaguely recognised from being inside the Jobcentre.

"You're coming with me mate, I owe you a massive drink for standing up to that bitch"

I spent the afternoon in the pub in the company of some really nice people, some of whom I am still mates with to this day. I realised that being unemployed can happen to any of us at any time, no matter how secure your job supposedly is.
(Undercovercarrotgot done for gross misconduct on..., Sun 5 Apr 2009, 7:46,
8 replies)

Tales of the Unemployed volume one
I may not get around to volume two as this week is a bit busy for me. (Hoo-fucking-ray I hear you cry).

So, back in the day and having worked as a jobcentre monkey for a relatively short space of time, but long enough to saddle me with a lifetime's worth of unhealthy cynicism, I had to do a 6 monthly review with Darren.

Darren was one of those lads that the system had written off as terminally unemployable; no qualifications, no skills, and an attitude not to be trifled with. "Good luck with him", my earstwhile and similarly jaded colleagues giggled. "You'll be lucky if he even turns up".

Sure enough, after 20 minutes of waiting, I was about to give up and close the book on him, when the door flew open and he dashed in. "Sorry I'm late, the bus was late and I only just got here".

"Darren", said I, "You're 20 minutes late for a 30 minute interview, I can't really see you now".

"Please", he asked, "It wasn't my fault, and I don't want to have my claim closed".

Whether it ws the look of panic in his eyes that did it I don't know, but my benevolence chip kicked in, and I asked him to take a seat. "This'll have to be quick, just a quick jobsearch and your signature, OK"?

As it happened, Darren was looking for basic labouring work, and a job had come in that morning for such work on a building site in Morpeth; £300 a week - not bad for unskilled labour. Trouble was, it involved an 8:30 start, the site was on the southern outskirts of the town, and Darren didn't have transport. Given the fact that he lived 16 miles away in a town with a bus service that didn't start until 8:30, it looked like a long shot. He might as well have lived at the arse end of the Outer Hebrides, the local transport was so shit. But Darren was convinced, and took the details away with him.

I was completely unprepared for what happened the next day. As I was about to head for lunch, the door of the office flew open and Darren ran in waving his ES40 card triumphantly and making a bee-line for me. "Won't be needing this anymore" he beamed. I must have looked puzzled, so he elaborated.

"That job you gave me details for yesterday; I got a lift off a mate and went straight down there. The bloke said I was the first person to actually bother turning up, so he gave me the job straight away. I start tomorrow. Really brilliant. Thank you for seeing me yesterday, if it wasn't for you I wouldn't have this".

"That's brilliant", I said, "but what about transport?"

"My mate works in Morpeth and starts at 8:45, he can drop me at the site before he goes into work".

And he shook my hand, thanked me again, handed his ES40 over, and disappeared out of the door as my colleagues watched on, dumbstruck.

I never saw him again.

Just goes to show, even the most apparently 'hopeless case' can turn around and surprise you.
(Davros' Granddada voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sat 4 Apr 2009, 12:17,
12 replies)

Jenny
A while back my boss dropped onto my desk a CV and covering letter sent in by a recent university graduate called Jenny. We had not advertised a position and we were not recruiting staff. “Bloody cheek” said my boss and promptly locked himself in his office to do whatever it is directors of small accountancy firms do. I gave the beautifully hand written letter a cursory glance before dropping it into the bin.

As the morning wore on the letter in the bin started to bother me. I was remembering the 6 months of unemployment I endured 8 years earlier…signing on the day after graduation, the grinding monotony of filling out job applications and dealing with disinterested recruitment agency staff, rejection after rejection and even worse, NEVER HEARING BACK!!!! Wondering what you did wrong or what made you so fucking unemployable, the feelings of betrayal over every teacher who had ever pushed you in the direction of higher education and having to lower your expectations in life every day as you apply for worse and worse jobs.

It got to mid-day and I thought “sod it, I’m going to call this girl and give her some feedback”. I was going to tell her that it was nothing to do with her; there just wasn’t a position available. I was going to tell her that I thought her cover letter was beautifully written and that her CV was well presented. I was going to tell her all the inside secrets I had learnt on how to become an accountant and the various recruitment agencies that could find her work. I might not be able to offer her a job, but by the end of our conversation she was going to be crying with tears of gratitude and joy.

I dialled the number, after many rings it is answered:Voice (her mother I assume): “Hello?”Me: “May I speak with Jenny please?”Jenny’s mother: “She’s still in bed”Me: “Jenny wrote to me expressing an interest in becoming a trainee accountant”.Jenny’s mother: “Hang on” She puts down the receiver and shouts “JENNY!” repeatedly up the stairs.Faint voice (Jenny I assume): “WHAT?”Jenny’s mother: “Some bloke you wrote to is on the phone, says he’s an accountant”Jenny: “Get him to call back, I’m meeting Sasha in town”Jenny’s mother (picks up receiver): “Can you call back? She’s…Me: “Meeting Sasha in town. I take it Jenny has already found a job?”Jenny’s mother: “Not yet, but she’s looking hard”

I wonder if Jenny’s mother could hear the sound of her daughters CV and beautifully hand-written letter going through the shredder at the side of my desk?
(Colonel DraculaTwo manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 15:08,
6 replies)

Camel Cock Fucking Fuckwit Cunt !
"You IDIOT! I asked for organic and you gave me regular! I saw you! Don't deny it! Is your manager here? I want to speak to your manager now!" screamed the turd in the suit, a young fella, only just twenty I'd say. He had the regulation 'I am a twat' haircut and a leather-bound file under his arm no doubt containing vital national security documents, the cure for cancer, the secret location of Osama Bin Laden, or quite possibly just a copy of The Daily Star and a packet of tic-tacs.

"Look, mate - she made a mistake," I ventured. I was stood behind him in the queue in the little family run coffee shop near where I work.

The walking abortion, barely old enough to shave, turned on me then. His nostrils flared as he sumed me up with a single glance, he spat out venomously: "Why don't you get a job?!?"

What... an... utter... cunt...

I was dressed pretty casually - jeans, a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, trainers, a weatherbeaten and weary countenance after a particularly heavy night spent attempting to find transcendense and Nirvana through the medium of alcohol and salty snackfoods. It was Friday. Casual dress day in my office.

"What's your problem, mate?" I asked.

The twat flicked his hair back, sending a fine spray of hair gel over my face. He fumed at me. He appeared to stick his chest out, as if to say: look, I'm wearing a suit, you're not, you're a thick twat and I'm a clever bollocks!

He breathed heavily in my direction - very odd, having someone attempt to threaten you by breathing. I simply stood my ground.

"I'd love to stay here and argue with you, but I have to be somewhere - unlike you," and he pushed past me. "And you can stick the coffee up your arse - I'd rather go to Starbucks!" He shouted to the girl behind the counter.

Charming, using such foul language infront of a lady - Starbucks, indeed, tchh!

I shook my head and raised my eyes to the girl behind the counter, we chatted about the cunt briefly and then I ordered my usual bacon buttie and black coffee - non-organic, give me as many fucking chemicals as you want; I like being more jacked-up on shit than the Green-fucking-Goblin.

After picking up my breakfast I stroll down past the British Library to my office. Another day behind a desk, woo!

I sit there for a few minutes and receive a reminder from one of my colleagues - I've got an appoinment ten minutes ago, shit! Always fucking late, always!

As I'm in a hurry I finish eating my sandwich, have a quick look at the news, footie scores, and my hotmail on the internet, drink the last dregs of my coffee, have a brief chat with my mate Bill about his wife and kids, stop off at the reception and butter-up the receptionist for a while, and then I saunter down to the meeting room I have reserved for me.

And sitting there, prim and proper, straight-backed and smiling, is my new best mate from the coffee shop. When he sees me his smile drops, his smile actually takes a running leap off a very tall building and splats messily on the pavement in a pool of blood and disintigrated bone and skin below. It looks like he's had a sudden and rather nasty stroke or quite possibly just filled his trousers with runny, bubbly shit.

I beam a big smile at him: "Mr Dolby, is it?" He nods. "My name's Mr Hanky - the interview should last about thirty minutes, afterwards if you have any questions about the company please feel free to ask." I sit down, still beaming at the fucker. I think I may actually have got a bit of an erection at the sudden feeling of awesome power. Usually conducting interviews bores the shit out of me, but not this one. Not today.

He looked like he was going to cry.

But what with me being a bigger cunt than this little whipper-snapper, I decided the best course of cuntish action would be to string him along and make him feel like he was doing fucking brilliantly.

While he was spouting on about how great he was and how good a degree he's got, I had a sudden urge to ask him to bark like a dog.

He actually thought he was winning me over - why? because I led him to believe this through my body language and by subtly advising him: "You're winning me over." While making pretend notes on my notepad.

Close to the end I considered proposing that if he suck me off here and now in the meeting room I'd guarentee him a place at the firm. But that was just a bit weird - I didn't really know what I'd do if he said "yes".

So we clunked our way through the interview, we stood up, shook hands, and my new best mate left feeling like I'd offer him a position as Manager of the World and God and Everything.

Oh, he didn't get the job.

Thankfully, his answers were all a pile of camel cock.

(But even if he'd been the best sales animal in the world I would've told him to fuck off and learn some manners).
(SpankyHanky, Sun 5 Apr 2009, 1:19,
10 replies)

I was nearly a bin lady
When I left the farmer (the previous Mr Chickenlady) I also left my job as chief chicken-handler, goat-handler, farm manager and sometime tractor driver – although to be fair the tractor driving I was pretty crap at and once almost tipped a rather large Valtra over as I was doing a spot of rolling one spring…

Anyway, losing my home, job and marriage necessitated me getting a job that would keep me in the comfort to which I had become accustomed, in other words something that paid the minimum wage or less. Refusing to sign on (I could afford a little bit of pride for a few weeks) I instead signed up with the local Brook Street temp agency. I have plenty of office skills and I’m quite willing to sit on the boss’s lap in a short skirt and file my nails.

So I was sent along for an interview at the local council in their refuse department – I’m not kidding, this wasn’t to empty the bins but rather to take telephone calls from angry ‘customers’ who hadn’t had their rubbish collected in the last month or were dealing with rats.

A great job.

I turn up at the office – a portacabin next to the bin lorries.

It was July – truly high summer…plenty of flies, sweaty men in florescent nylon uniforms and me.

I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.No, that’s wrong.I thought I’d died. Well, someone had, I could smell them.

Laura was to interview me and would be my boss if successful. She was stunning – nearly six foot tall, fantastic FHM cover figure, long brown hair and a beautiful face. She shook my hand, introduced me to the other applicant also being interviewed and then led us to her office.

The other applicant was called Maureen, she’d clearly smoked sixty a day for the last four decades, carried a few extra pounds and dressed way too young for her 45 years in a low cut blouse that showed the world her wrinkled puppies. Nobody could fail to be drawn into her sagging cleavage as she wore a giant piece of jewellery which can only be described as a dog turd cast into gold and then hung from a lavatory chain around her neck. Maureen told Laura and me she was an Artist and this was a piece of her own work. She wanted the job because it would provide,

“Interesting material for my next piece. You see, I’m planning some art pieces on found objects and the detritus left around us and how life is so transient.”

We both smiled and nodded politely.

“Erm, Maureen you’ll have to wear shoes if you come to work here you know” Laura pointed out.

Maureen was very apologetic and fished a pair of jellies (circa 1985) from her commodious bag which she then struggled to fit over the horniest pair of feet I’ve ever seen…I don’t mean her feet were sexy, I mean she had feet that even goats would be ashamed of – black toe nails, toe rings and cracked horny skin.

“I never normally wear shoes, it’s so I keep grounded and with the people.”

Laura nodded and showed us around the portacabin en route to her office,

“Here’s the kettle. That’s where you’ll make the coffee each morning.”

“Is it Fairtrade? I only drink Fairtrade. It’s part of my religion you see. And part of my raison d’être as an Artist.”

Maureen continued to witter on about her practise as an artist and Laura continued to smile – albeit vacantly after a few moments.

Anyway, I went into the interview first and was asked all the usual questions – what I’d done before and so on. I explained how I used to teach, went to the farm, blah, blah, blah.

Laura went pale, her smile became a little forced and she told me she’d let the agency know.

An hour later the agency phoned me – Laura couldn’t employ me as her assistant as she felt very uncomfortable about me working there.

She thought I’d get bored and leave.

I was too qualified.

She wasn’t sure I’d like the smell of the bins.

She believed I was the wrong type of person to be working there but I was very nice.

Then I remembered where I’d seen her before….

I’d been her teacher seven years before.

Maureen got the job for a few weeks. She ended up sacked when it came to light that she’d been stealing rubbish from the bins and making sculptures out of them.

THE GREAT PROJECT
I was unemployed for about six months a while back. It was pretty hellish, no money, fuck all to do, and I realised pretty early on that daytime TV was produced by mindless wankers to sate the cerebrally retarted appetites of other mindless wankers. I don't care about home improvements, antiques, mysterious diseases, or self-important shits wearing designer haircuts going on about how fucking great they are. If I wanted that I'd get a job in advertising.

It was fucking awful.

Then I hit upon an idea. A great project. THE great project. A scheme that Brunel himself would've been proud of. I felt like Darwin, spending hours pouring over my materials, sorting them into some kind of order. Trying to find an answer to a question that has plauged humankind for centuries.

And it kept me busy for ages.

Of course, I had to shell out a bit of cash in the pursuit of The Great Project, but it wasn't too pricey - my fortnightly dole cheque covered the expense and left enough cash to purchase tins of tomatoes, peas, and rice.

The Great Project was not complete, but it certainly wasn't forgotten. With love and great care I put the fruits of my feverish labour in a big cardboard box and marked on the front of it:

THE GREAT PROJECT

Then I put the box in a wardrobe and forgot about it.

Fastforward a year, I'm happy with the current and only Ms Hanky, I have a nice job in central London where I get to drink coffee all day and talk absolute bollocks and get paid for it, and I hear Liz, my girlfriend say:

"What's this?"

I look up from my well-thumbed copy of The Dark Knight Returns and see she's holding the box, my Arc of the Covenant.

I suddenly shit myself.

"Oh, it's nothing," I say, tossing aside the greatest graphic novel ever written and standing to take the box off her.

"But it says 'The Great Project' on it," says Liz. "What is it? Can I open it? I'm going to open it."

And she does. Liz is small, petite, but she's got a fiery Welsh temper and once she decides to do something, well, no power in the Universe can stop her. Not even the Dark Knight himself.

Liz places the box on the floor, pulls back the flaps, and stares.

And I feel my arsehole start to hum.

"What the fuck is THIS???" Liz enquires.

I shrug.

Liz reaches in and takes out some of the discs which I've loveingly labled. She scans a few of them. She slams them down. She finds the folder that I was compiling as a catalogue of my Great Work, opens it, looks at some of my notes.

And I look down at my crowning achievement, wishing I hadn't started the whole project in the first place.

You see, if you're bored and unemployed, by all means look at porn on the internet. But don't, please DON'T, download every conceivable scrap of smut you can find and commit it to disk. And don't, whatever you do, catalogue the smut into categories such as: Watersports, Beastiality, Lesbian, Cumshot (on tits), Cumshot (with facial), Anal, Anal with Cumshot, and so on on individual disks. And don't, for the love of God, make a cross referenced catalogue featuring your personal such as:

It took a fucking long, long, looooonnnngggg time to get Liz to come back home. And when she did she was none too fucking happy with me, I can tell you.

And she made me bin The Great Project.

I still wonder to this day if some lucky teenage lad hit the jackpot, won the proverbial Euromillions Rollover, when he found that box of smut, THE ultimate box of smut, in a skip on Camden Road.
(SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 13:37,
21 replies)

To the B3ta Mods…an open letter.

We’ve had our ups and downs, and as you know I am often at the forefront, wagging my complaining tallywaggle about when there have been shite QotWs used.

We whinge and bitch and bang on and on about it until we’re blue in the mouth. By jingo I bet you’re sick of it.

The thing is, when a good suggestion is used. Nobody ever lines up to say ‘Well done’. We all just mutter, take it for granted and get on with enjoying the QotW. You guys have a thankless task.

Well, I’m man enough to say this now. I have a GOOD feeling about this week.

So well.fucking.done. Kudos to you on what I think is an excellent choice.

I’m not even going to go into the realms of ‘about fucking time’. Let’s put it behind us shall we?

This question is generic, relevant enough to include everybody and there is definite potential for the thought-provoking posts. And the laughs, of course.

Although I can’t think of anything specific to post right now, I’m sure it won’t be long before I remember something worth posting. Until then I’ll enjoy the other posts.

I put down on my jobseeker form that I was interested in accounting and computer programming roles even though I'd never had any sort of job since saturdays at Tesco when I was in the Sixth Form.

I enrolled on a book-keeping evening course at the local college but those few weeks convinced me that accounting wasn't for me so IT it was then.

When I went to sign on, I asked woman with an attitude whether there were any computer programming courses I could go on. "We don't do anything like that" she said in her condescending tone.

A few weeks later I signed on at helpful bloke with beard's desk. He looked at my notes and said "I see you're interested in computer programming, we offer a course in C++, would you like to go on it?".

So for 16 weeks I travelled to Cambridge most days. Couldn't afford every day as £35 per week Income Support plus the extra £10 they gave me for attending the course didn't leave much change after the £7 per day rail fair. I did complete the course though and thoroughly deserved my NVQ4 in C++ programming.

This enabled me to get my first proper job as a Junior Developer and has put me on a path of ever increasing salaries and eventually contracting. I now find myself sat at home for a few weeks between contracts with a pile of dosh in my business account, playing games and reading B3ta.

So, helpful bloke with beard, thanks for helping me and thanks for giving me a career.

And, woman with an attitude, I can but hope that you are as miserable on the inside as you are on the outside and that you are no longer employed in a role that allows you to fuck up young people's chances of getting the help and encouragemnent that they need.
(stopmeandslapmeCometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 14:54,
5 replies)

Tales of the unemployed volume five
2002. I'm on a night out (nurses night in Morpeth - last Wednesday of every month. Bloody meat market). I'm standing having a pint in a bar with my mate Alan, when I notice this bloke giving me the eye.

Eventually he comes over to me.

"Alright?" he asks.

"Erm, yeah. Good, thanks", I reply, somewhat disconcerted. What the fuck does this guy want?

"You work in the Jobcentre in Alnwick, don't you?"

Aw, shit. Not what I need at this moment. A pissed off punter.

"I did, but I left a few months ago. I'm doing something else now".

"You interviewed me about a year ago".

My arsehole starts putting like a rabbits' nose at this point, sphincter contracting and expanding rapidly - one penny, bin lid, one penny, bin lid. Had I actually eaten anything, I probably would have shat myself and cried at that point.

"Oh, did I?"

"Yeah"

A brief pause.

"Yeah. You were the only person in that place that treated me like a human being in the short time I was signing on. And you gave me the details for the job I'm doing now. Cheers. What you drinking?"

One pint of Tetley's later, and I'm his best mate. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

So you see, if you work in a Jobcentre, never ever piss off the clients. There might be a beer in it for you at some point.
(Davros' Granddada voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sun 5 Apr 2009, 21:06,
3 replies)

In the job centre
I went through the humiliation of signing up for Jobseekers allowance (basically fuck all). After the patronising cunt went through the tedious questions she reaches down and picks up a big padded envelope and passes it over to me.

"What's this?" I ask, tearing it open to find a polyester lime green shell suit, a big fake gold medallion from Elizabeth Duke, and a packet of Royals cigarettes.

Its probably to do with having the attention span of a hummingbird on speed.

These weird ideas are usually compounded if I find myself sitting round with fuck all money and fuck all to do. - Being unemployed is not good. Its not good at all.

One time in my early twenties I'd been given the heave-ho from the rather cushdy sales job I had. No fucker was buying houses and I lost my role as 'smarmy cunt in a suit and tie trying to flog people mortgages'.

I was suddenly alone in the flat I shared with my mate John all day.

And one fateful Monday I got an idea in my head. And I followed it through to a shockingly, sickeningly obvious conclusion. It wasn't helped by the fact that I was alone in the flat for a week; John was working in France that week and wouldn't be back until late Friday night. I was well and truly alone.

So, being a normal, rational person I decided to see how much cum I could produce in a five day period. I was interested, curious, I was a pioneer in the further studies of spunk and all things cum-related. If I was a superhero I would've been Captian Cum, or the Masked Manfat Avenger, or quite possibly Sir Spunks-alot.

I found an empty two pint orange juice container in the bin. Thought better of it; I was good, but not that fucking good. Instead I went to the fridge and fished out the nearly-empty pint of milk we had in there. Washed the container out throughly, and went to find some porn which was usually lying about in every room of the flat.

A quick one off the wrist later I had the start of my sperm collection sloshing about in the bottom of the pint bottle. Oooh, a nice runny one with lumpy bits of egg white stuff. Fair size. Nice smell. Good bouquet. Sort of smelled a bit like the ocean. Quite a nice load all said and done. I then went and put the bottle in the fridge and went back to the living room to watch some daytime TV.

After an hour I had another quick wank.

Contents into the bottle again. Lovely.

And this is what I did for the entire week. By Friday afternoon I had just about reached the bottom of the lable on the pint bottle. I was pretty damn impressed. Looked a bit fucked up. I recall tapping the glass and swishing it about a bit. It resembled very runny tapioca. Smelt fucking awful even though it'd been in the fridge.

And then I got a call on Friday afternoon from my mate Hans (who's from Lincoln, not Germany), and I went out to get caned and see Silverchair for free. Woo!

It was a fucking great evening. I got so wasted I ended up sleeping on Hans' floor with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels resting on my chest. I woke up early on Saturday morning, found my trainers, and fucked off back home.

And found John sitting at the breakfast counter in our flat. He was reading the paper. He looked up and said a cheery "hello!"

I asked him how his trip went. He shrugged, it was so-so. I went to the cupboard and dragged out two mugs.

And John said: "Whatever you do don't use the milk in the fridge - I had some in my coffee when I got back last night... Tasted fucking awful."

"Errr, I'll just pop out and get a fresh pint," I said.

And I did.

And to this day John doesn't know he has actually tasted my baby making cake mix.
(SpankyHanky, Mon 6 Apr 2009, 15:09,
5 replies)

TWAT ON THE PHONE
I've only bothered to sign on once in my life even though I've been unemployed several times.

It was a painful process, going down to sign on.

With my little booklet in hand with my homework in, detailing 'what I've done to find a job this fortnight', I'd go and get treated like a fucking cretin by a shit in a suit who's probably never had a good shag in their life.

They'd look through my book, give me some shit, and then I'd leave feeling like I'd just been emotionally raped by the fucker behind the desk.

And it went on like this for a few months.

Until one day I went to sign on and was told:

"Mr Hanky, you haven't been following the guidelines as a jobseeker, therefore we've got no choice but to cut your benefits immediately." Smiled the cunt behind the desk.

"What?" I asked. "But its got in my book everything I've been doing! Look!" And I showed them.

The bloke behind the counter shook his head: "No, Mr Hanky - you were required in your return to work contract to contact the office once a week by telephone as well as fill in the booklet. We don't have any record of any telephone contacts."

"No one told me this!"

"If you'd have made a call sometime today to let us know what you've been doing to find work we may have been able to help."

I blinked at him, completely lost for words. I felt like ramming his smug fucking head into his desk. Instead I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone: "What's your number?" I asked.

Grudgingly he gave it to me. I tapped it into the phone and the phone on his desk started to ring. He looked down at it. I looked down at it too. I waited. He waited. Eventually he picked up the receiver.

Ooooh, what a fucking suprise. It was me on the other end...

"Hello Mr Fuckwit-Jobcentre-Cunty-Bollocks," I started. "Please can I tell you what I've done this week to try and find work?"

And the fucker went along with it, wrote down a few notes, tapped away on his computer terminal, and after the call turned back to me, grinned an evil grin and said:

"Well, everything seems to be in order now, Mr Hanky. See you in a fortnight."

And I left, wondering what the fuck was all that about.

Apologies for lack of spunk & Batman in this post. Just happens to be 100% true, this one.
(SpankyHanky, Tue 7 Apr 2009, 14:11,
7 replies)

Fringe benefits to unemployment.
There I was. Recently graduated from a former polytechnic in a social science at the height of the last recession, and nobody wanted to give me a job! It was an outrage. A sure example of The Man keeping me down.

I'm not actually someone who can sit still for long and I soon got bored, so I asked after voluntary work at the local job centre and ended up doing several days a week in the fundraising department of a major hospital. I thought I'd be jangling a tin on street corners, but as I was good with computers and quite funny I ended up writing and designing adverts and helping out with big corporate charity appeals. It was a pretty good job - I even got free food on the days I worked.

One thing that this hospital did was arrange huge events and try and set world records in 'wacky' things - the biggest conga line, that sort of thing - in order to raise sponsorship funds, and one event I was involved in had an expected attendance of ten thousand people. Some corporate, marketing-type presentations were done and sponsorship was gained for the event from Mcvities, who as part of the deal agreed to supply a 'fun size' packet of Jaffa Cakes for every attendee.

The day of the event came and I was wandering round the site in the morning, making sure all was all right and I wandered into the stockroom to make sure everything was Ok in there as well. As I stood there, I heard a click behind me. Someone had noticed the stockroom door standing open and shut and locked it - presumably to prevent theft. I had a moment of panic before I realised I wouldn't be in there long as the sponsorship goodies were stacked in pallets and the event attendees would be along in a while. Plus there was a tap so I wasn't exactly going to die in there.

And then it struck me. I was locked, alone and unsupervised, in a room containing thirty thousand jaffa cakes. You may be able to guess the rest.

It was the best mornings work I've ever had, and I was unemployed at the time.
(davywavy, Mon 6 Apr 2009, 10:48,
11 replies)

Being Unemployed
There are a number of beautiful stages that you will go through:

1) Elation - The sheer freedom! A time in your life where you can look forward and think, in the next few MONTHS I have absolutely nothing to worry about. I can go anywhere, do anything (O.K. money might be a bit tight) but I AM FREE!

2) The Art of Sleep - Every day is the weekend. Sleep in until 11am. Then 12noon. Then 2pm. Then until when you get up its actually dark outside. Your slumber is so deep and relaxing that time is of no importance now.

3) Procrastination - After 3 weeks of living like a vampire, those computer games you have over-played are becoming tiresome. You are becoming increasingly frustrated with Phil and Fearns perpetual faux-happyness and smutty innuendos. You are ready to smash the T.V. after yet another glorious and smug attempt by Jeremy Kyle to belittle some working class scum-bag who beat up his daughter while shagging his own gran.

4) Depression. Months have passed and you can barely even sleep anymore. If you do it's at precisely the wrong time, perhaps when that girl you fancy is round and you miss everything. You have been gorging yourself on discount frozen pizza, out of date meat products and outrageous amounts of coffee. There is no structure to your life. It is sleep, watch daytime T.V., eat shit, shit shit and then struggle in vain to sleep. Hygiene is out the window, self-respect is at an all-time low. You hate even shopping or wandering the streets for fear that you will be exposed by the layman as the dithering piece of worthless shit that you are.

Unemplyod
Well, I'm unemployed now, and 2 B honest I am not sure that enyone will ever give me a job agian after teh right balls up I made of my last one, so I could be doin nutin a while, not that thats kmuch diffrent than when I wuz wrking, goddamn these kyebaords. it iz prbbly my ownn folt, becoz i wos a rite slakcer at my jobb. Now all I hav to do is look aftre our house an 2 B onest I hav not a good track record at that. In my last jbo I hda to look after lots of hsoues adn I got into big trubl when I let sum get fludded and let some opther reely big wuns got nkokcd down. At least the wife is lookin after our money, coz i wrnt 2 gud at managin that eithre. I used to get my godd pal Dick 2 do mst ov the wrok, well him and Don. Dick an Don in da House I used 2 calll them. But then they went and cocked it akll up. I only gott the posishun becos my dad is well rich and famus, but I think he dont like me as much as my little brover, becus he got hima job where it iz much bettre wether lots more sunny. that job I had was good thouhg, big house, car, office, plane, heliktper. The heliopcter wos teh best bit i think, plus playing wiht the toy soldiers on the big baord with Don. yessir, so now I Am at honme all the time wiht the missus and my two daugters who are doin my hed in and R reely embarrsing coz they are alcyholics like wot I uzed 2B. see ya.
(Mystery_Machine, Mon 6 Apr 2009, 13:53,
24 replies)

Tales of the Unemployed volume two
The Minimum Wage.

Hard to believe now, but in the late 90's, this wasn't law. I was still working in the jobcentre when it was brought in, and the effect it had was quite eye opening in some cases.

I had a new claims interview with a young lass. She was strikingly very pretty, well spoken, and had been working as a hairdresser. She also had a set of norks that would have encouraged most blokes (and some ladies too - diversity and all that) to go and get their hair cut twice a week for the pleasure of almost suffocating between them as she trimmed your fringe... She had left the job because as soon as the minimum wage came in, her boss, who had been paying her something ludicrous like £2 an hour for forty hours a week, immediately slashed her hours to 20 simply to avoid paying her more. The youngster was understandably peeved at this and told her boss to stick her job up her metaphorical hairdryer.

Problem was, if you leave a job willingly, you stand a good chance of having your benefits stopped for up to 6 months...

I'm happy to say that for once the adjudicators saw sense in this case, and no further action was taken.

Six months later, at the point where she qualified for assistance to start her own business, she did just that, and started her own mobile hairdressing emporium. And, as I heard later, took half of her old bosses business away from her in the process.

Before I'd seen Darren, I had the misfortune to be asked to carry out a new claim interview earlier that morning. The bloke was in the office, and he was fucking huge. He made the Incredible Hulk look like a 6 stone weakling and probably would have pissed all over him in a fight. I beckoned him to my desk, asked him to take a seat, and went through the general eligibility spiel that I had recited so many times before.

He'd been working as a labourer on a local building site, and had walked off the job for some suitably vague reason. When I informed him that his claim would need to go to an adjudicator and could well be closed down because of this voluntary jacking in of work, he wasn't best pleased.

"I'm not saying it will be suspended, just letting you know that this is the procedure. You'll be asked for some more information, they'll speak to your employer and make a decision from there".

"Like fuck they will", was the somewhat terse response. I could feel the interview slipping away from me at that point, and my own will sapping somewhat.

OK, jobsearch time. "I see you've been working as a labourer, are you still looking for something in that line".

"Aye, it's all I've done".

"We don't get many vacancies advertised in here for that sort of work, it's usually word of mouth stuff; going down to sites, that sort of thing. However, we just had a vacancy placed this morning, £300 a week".

"Where"?

"Morpeth".

"MORPETH??? That's fucking miles away, do you expect me to go all the way to fucking Morpeth? I'd never see me bairns, man".

"It's not that far, only 16 miles. Besides, I have to tell you about the vacancy otherwise I'd not be doing my job".

"Aye, but Morpeth? Do you really expect me to travel outside of Alnwick for work"?

"Well, lots of people do..."

"Bet you fucking wouldn't".

"Actually, I live in Morpeth and travel here every day".

"Bet you've got a car though".

"Well, yes, but as it happens I got the bus in today. The service from Alnwick is quite good you know".

"Travel to fucking work on a fucking bus? You're not fucking living in the real world mate".

And so on.

Suffice to say, he walked out at the end of the interview, I referred his claim, and surprise surprise, he had actually been sacked from his job for calling his gaffer a cunt or something. Instant 6 month suspension of benefit for gross misconduct, and the labouring job under discussion went to a far better cause at the end of the day.

boredom breeds creation
i have, in the decade that has passed since i was 16, spent a mere 2 months unemployed.during this time, i was bored SHITLESS. this manifested itself in a plethora of unusual outlets.

the more mundane. wanking. i don't just mean normal wanking, i mean the frenzied kind of wanking that could put a bus full of 14yr old boys and a zoo chimp to shame. the real sort of face-reddening, gurning, one arm bigger than the other like some sort of fleshy fiddler crab, one foot on the ceiling, extreme wanking. this was replaced by a girlfriend, but there was the time she was at work still to occupy.so i started on the garden (see my wasp story on a previous QOTW) once the garden was better manicured than a glamour model's clunge, the attention turned to the bike. that thing got the wheels rebuilt, the bearing stripped, the works. STILL i had free time and nothign to do with it.

then it beganthe bong-building.it started small. a courvoisier bottle bong. then a weird pipe contraption made of assorted jars and metal parts. then the giant bamboo bong.then the 4' long piece of drainpipe with the copper radiator tube downpipe... WITH a midway twist for ice. debilitating!then things got REALLY out of handi am proud, AND ashamed to say that shortly before becoming employed again, i managed, with a little help from my housemate, the following contraption.

1 canister diving air belonging to the landlord, half-full. long hose attached to a home-made assemblage with two screw-on ends and a midesction of copper pipe, which can be heated with a paintstripper gun.another shorter hose going into the bottom of a sealed demijohn half full of water. another hose leading out from above the waterline to ANOTHER demijohn full of ice cubes, leading to a smaller hose. leading to a balloon. it was a three person operation, one to gently tweak the valve on the canister, another to heat the copper tube full of green, and another to fill the balloons.it lasted for one party, half-filled the kitchen, got a LOT of people VERY fucked up, then became unstable and prone to firing smoking hot ganja all over the place.

"I've got one of these for everyone"
said my then boss, handing out envelopes to all the staff.

Everyone's faces lit up and smiled. There was even red-faced coy giggling from some of the women.

This reaction confused the boss greatly. I don't think he'd noticed that the day he decided to give everyone their P45 was the 14th of February.
(chthonic, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 11:30,
Reply)

I've been unemployed since December
And so far, I've got nothing apart from a couple of interveiws. I can't get low paid job, because as soon as employers see the fact I have a degree they figure I'll piss off at the first oppurtunity, and I can't go in for graduate training as I've already applied for teacher training posts. So yes, I'm stuck inside, every fucking day, looking for work.

It takes about 2 hours to go through the websites I have bookmarked, another 1 hour or so calling up (or trying to get through to people) agencies, asking for work, another half hour or so reading through the local paper if it happens to be the right day.

I haven't been out drinking in months, I can't afford to hire films, or buy music or even food more interesting than beans on toast. I'm getting pretty sick of people who assume all people on the dole are scroungers, and even more sick of having precisely fuck all to tell people when I do meet them. Every damn time I get a letter of rejection, or more often than not no reply at all it fucking hurts, and reinforces the part of me that thinks I'm a failure. I used to be pretty laid back, friendly, confident and happy, and the longer this goes on the more I find myself unable to even remember when I was like that. So no funnies. No silver lining from where I am either. I honestly don't expect anyone to click this, or reply, I'm just ranting.
(FredzA graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 14:02,
16 replies)

Hmmmm...
When I was signing on, I allowed myself the small pleasure of putting "Dr" in the title box on the paperwork, purely so that the person behind the desk would have to call "Dr Enzyme" when it was my turn in the queue.

The bastards were always friendly and informal and used my first name instead.

Anyway - I had to explain what I was doing to look for work.Well, I said, I'm hoping to get a couple of papers or a book out of my thesis. That'll make me much more employable."Hmmmm. Have you thought about doing an apprenticeship?"Um... no. I just explained that I've recently finished 8 years of higher education. If I wanted to be a plasterer, I'd have followed that route instead."But you have to be looking for work..."I am."... or in training."But... but... isn't the training to make you more employable? That's exactly what I'm planning with the papers I want to write. And I'll end up with a much better job."Are you working at all at the moment?"I have a bar job a couple of nights a week."Ah. Catering. Have you thought about doing that full-time?"Hang on. You're saying that I should throw away several years and thousands of pounds to get a full-time bar job that I could have got when I was 18?"You have experience..."... I'm genuinely lost for words. You actually mean this, don't you?

The thing is, I can see the sense behind that kind of policy. But, on this occasion, there was an important difference - to wit: it applied to me.
(Enzymeis powered by sunlight, Mon 6 Apr 2009, 12:14,
23 replies)

I was a student housewife.
Here, as far as I can understand it, is my housemate's current train of thought.

1. I have a Very Important Job [Saturdays only].2. Shini, by virtue of overarching laziness and a student loan, has no job and is thus A Waster.3. As such, she could at least make herself useful around the house by tidying my room, doing my laundry and washing up a week's worth of my plates after hauling them out from under the sofa.4. For the rest of the week, I will be busy recuperating after the stresses of my Very Important Job [eight hours a week in a small tobacconist which is in no danger of being overrun with customers]; and so I will have no choice but to fling my crockery and socks down on the floor and then forget they're there. I can't see the floor, because I am Tall and Manly.5. Possibly as a direct consequence of being A Waster, Shini is neither Tall nor Manly [whatever my granny says]. Therefore, it makes sense for her to pick my stuff up when it goes below eye level.6. Onoz! My mummy is arriving from Americaland tomorrow! We must clean the entire house!7. But I am Working at my Very Important &c., so Shini will do it.8. It's what she's for.9. Two nights before my mummy is due to get here, and the night before I have to get up at eight to Go To Work, it is a sensible idea to come shuffling into Shini's room at one in the morning with a two-litre bottle of Coke and discuss politics with her for four and a half hours.10. Oh, fucksocks. I'm only going to get two hours' sleep tonight. That bitch. It's her fault.11. Ah well, at least I can sleep with my eyes open at My Job. Shini will do a month's worth of laundry, tidy my room, hide my porn, set up the spare room ready for my mummy, do the washing up and move all the musical instruments I bought on a whim, can't play and don't really have room for into her room, because she is A Waster with Nothing To Do.12. I wonder what she'll make for tea?

The sad thing is, we're not even married. We're not even fucking. I just owe him money.
(Shinigami, Sat 4 Apr 2009, 11:17,
11 replies)

dole office.
A friend of mine had just left medical school, and had 2 months before he started his choosen profession proper. Amazingly(appallingly some might wonder), he could claim dole money whilst sitting on his arse congratulating himself.soon the sunny days of sun, beer, and trying to impress the ladies with yes, I am a Doctor, ended and he had to " sign off" the dole.The conversation went thus-Him- " i`ve come to sign off"Excited dole office girl- "Thats very good love, youv`e got a job now have you love?"Him- " yes"Her( whilst typing)" lovely, lovely, where you going to be working love??"Him- " at XXXX hospital "Her- " ohh lovely, what you going to be doing??"Him- " umm, I1m going to be working as a houseofficer in the neurosurgical unit"Her- " REALLYY?- I don`t remeber putting the card up for that one, how on earth did you manage to get that job love??"Him- " Six years at medical school , working my tits off."Her- " lovely, good luck then love."

Free Hardware
"Why are you grinning? This isn't funny, you know. Are you in shock? Do you need to sit down?" said the bigwig manager at the large insurance firm named after a certain city in Switzerland.

I'd never got on with this man. I could never figure out what was wrong with him, he was so up his own arse I'm suprised he didn't constantly smell like shit instead of the overpriced aftershave he slapped on liberally. OK, we hadn't got off on the right foot when one night I politely advised him I'd love to ejaculate on his wife's tits. I was drunk.

Then it suddenly occured to me one day: The bloke simply couldn't cum. That would explain why he was such a complete and utter cunt. I imagine his balls were the size of coconuts and bluer than the deep blue ocean. The cunt.

"No, that's fine. I get it," I said. "Can I go now?" My boss sort of nodded in my direction. "No, you don't understand. Can I go. As in leave the building?"

The cunt grunted at me, well, that's good enough for me! As I'm walking out his office he tells me to clear my desk and leave my pass at reception.

I'd worked there for four years.

But I was fucking happy. The place was a shithole run by cunts - it was like being stuck in 1984 (the book, not the year, though that would probably've been pretty dire too, what with the endless Adam Ant songs and the shit hair). Most of my mates had already left and I was only there on account of being a lazy drifter with the work ethic of a flouncing supermodel with a nasty coke habit, with a hangover, having her period.

So, I went back to my desk and told my fellow workers I'd been sacked. Came as a bit of a suprise - I am actually fucking great at my job; always the top sales bod on the target boards wherever I work.

My mate from IT, Sanjay, was loitering in the office, checking out the skirt. He came and shook my hand: "You'll be missed, mate."

And then I packed my shit into a box, rang up for a taxi to take me home, and went downstairs. Sanjay came down with me, lending a hand.

"Well, the whole place is closing in a few months," he said. Being the IT bod he had a better idea what was going on - he would regularly tell me the contents of the top secret emails the big boss gods would send each other. "The whole business has gone down the shitter, mate. They're getting rid of everything at a cutprice." Then he stopped. "Hang on - go and wait in the taxi and I'll be right back down." And he fucked off back up the stairs.

I went down to the reception with my box of crap, handed in my security pass, chatted with the security guard for a while. Then my taxi pulled up and I ran clambered inside.

"Hang on a minute, mate," I asked the driver, who nodded and flicked the meter on anyway.

Moments later my mate Sanjay appeared with a box covered in a bin bag, he slid it onto the seat next to me, slammed the door shut and grinned down through the window: "There you go, Spanky - a leaving present."

"What is it?"

"Brandnew laptop. Never been opened. Top of the range. Worth over two-grand."

"I certainly will, mate," and then I left in the taxi, with my pencils, my pens, my framed photo of Han Solo, and an rather nice bit of computer gear that I now write most of this utter drivel on when I'm not in the office.
(SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Apr 2009, 10:43,
11 replies)

Smut
I love hearing those words...

I know I'm going to be in for a great night...

My erstwhile girlfriend will say: "Hun, do you wanna do that special thing, you know what I mean..." While she strips off her cloths and lays on the bed, legs spread so wide I can almost see her kidneys.

Oh, shit, YES!!! I know what she means!!!

Moments later I've shed my own cloths faster than a man on fire and I start getting down, supping the furry cup. She strokes my head and whispers: "Do it now, Hun, you know how much it drives me WILD!!!"

And I do.

I reach down to the side of the bed and slip a Trebour Extra Strong in my gob. There's something about lapping at her beef curtains and poking my tonge up her baby chamber while sucking on one of these things that simply DRIVES HER WILD!

So, I'm sucking away at the fiery bit of confectionary in my gob, admiring her wet and pulsing axe wound, and then she'll say those three special words: